Canaan
by claudiapriscus
Summary: Dark Side of the Moon AU. Outside POV: Two bodies found in a motel room in a small town. The sheriff wishes she'd never gotten involved. The M.E. wants to pretend it never happened. Two vigilantes are left wondering how a simple plan can go so wrong.


Written for the ReverseBang challenge on LJ, which worked by pairing authors up with art prompts. Mizra created the piece I wrote for; I encourage everyone to either find me on livejournal or look up the spn_reversebang comm to see it.

* * *

"_Go ahead, Roy. Do it."_

Roy didn't jump. But he looked at the body splayed across the bed and shook his head. "Shit, Walt. He was human- a hunter. We could have found another way. It's not right."

Walt cut him off sharply. "The _hell_ it wasn't, Roy." He thrust his gun at Roy and began tearing through the pockets of the dead men. "You heard him same as I did." Walt pulled out a wallet from one pocket and paused to shove it into his jacket. "I'm not going to feel comfortable until we've toasted both their asses," he added vehemently, and returned to turning out pockets and dumping out duffel bags.

Roy juggled the guns awkwardly for a second, still unsettled. "Yeah, alright, but-"

Walt left off his searching, stood straight up, and looked Roy directly in the eye. "_Fuck_ it, Roy. Whatever you're gonna say- _fuck it_. He sided with the monsters. We agreed to this, man." Walt gestured violently with one arm. "Hell, you've heard the rumors- And you know as well as me that a man don't come back from that _easy._"

"Rumors ain't worth shit," Roy protested.

"Since when?" Walt demanded, slamming open a drawer and rummaging through the contents.

"C'mon, Walt. You can't tell me you believed it. You're the one-"

"I'm not having this conversation with you anymore. It's done." Walt closed the drawer, then paused and turned his head sharply as a far off sound suddenly became far more audible. "Is that...?"

"Goddamn," Roy spat. "We're fucked, Walt. Let's go already."

Walt didn't answer. He'd gone back to frantic searching.

Roy began to worry. "What the hell are you looking for?" he demanded, still juggling the shotguns and starting to feel nervous about it. Suicide-by-Cop was not the kind of exit he was looking for.

"The keys, moron," Walt snapped. The sirens grew louder, and Roy's pulse jumped.

"Fuck the keys, Walt! We need to get out of here."

"Not without the car."

"Fuck the car, too!"

Walt spotted an ashtray on the bedside table and darted to it, grabbing a keyring out of it. "Come on!" he said, sprinting for the door.

Roy jogged after him. "What about the bodies?" he demanded. "We can't shoot them and leave them. Fuck. Fuck, Shit, FUCK! I knew this was a bad idea."

"We'll have to get them later. Goddamn it. How the hell are the cops so fast?" Roy didn't bother to answer, focusing instead on getting the hell out of there. Walt headed straight for the big black Chevy parked on the opposite side of the lot. Roy ran after him.

Reaching the car first, Walt unlocked the door and got in, slamming it in the rush. "Hurry your ass up!" he yelled, pulling the lock up on the passenger side. Roy hurried around the back of the car and slid in.

"You're going to get us goddamn killed, you idiot! Shit, do you know how much Dean loved this car?"

"Yeah, you may have mentioned it," he said with heavy sarcasm. He gunned the engine and peeled out of the parking lot. "We'll burn it. We have to."

"And what if he starts haunting us before that? You left the goddamn bodies behind!" Roy braced himself against the door as Walt flew around the corner.

Walt tightened his grip on the wheel, and sent the car dodging between the few cars on the road. "The bodies'll go to the morgue," he said. "We can handle that."

"Yeah? And what about pissed-off hunter-ghosts?" The car rocketed over pothole, bouncing Roy's head off the window. "Goddamn it!"

"Shit, Roy. Think. The cops were right there- what were we supposed to do? Say 'Sorry, officer, we'll have these bodies out of here in no time?'

"Maybe we could have, if you hadn't spent all day looking for the damn keys!"

"If this car gets impounded, it's not going to see daylight for years," Walt spat back. "The bodies'll be easy. We do that all the time."

"What?"

"The weapons, you idiot. Evidence? Ringing any bells?"

"So how are we going to get our truck back, then? You know, the non-haunted one with all _our_ weapons?"

Walt glanced down and away from the road for a second. "They won't tie it to the crime immediately. We'll sneak back and get it later," he said. He didn't sound convinced.

"I told you this was a bad idea."

"Just shut the hell up."

"I should have listened to Mama."

"How did I ever get saddled with you? Christ," Walt muttered. The car bounced over uneven road as Walt swung them back onto the highway.

"Just lucky, I guess," Roy answered sourly, still clinging to the door. "This is the last time I trust you with the plan."

"You're the one-" Walt began, then shut his mouth. "Screw it," he said, and floored it.

They flew down the highway and out of town.

Sixty seconds later, a firetruck came to a stop outside the motel they'd so recently vacated. An EMT and two firemen ran into the lobby.

They emerged less than ten minutes later.

"What was it this time?" asked the driver.

"I'll tell you what it's not-" a firefighter remarked sourly, "And that would be a heart attack."

The EMT rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Panic attack, same as always. Thought someone was shooting at him- again."

"Shocking," the driver remarked. "Just like the last twenty times. Though what was it last time? Aliens?"

The EMT shrugged. The driver shrugged back and continued, "You know, just for once I'd like to go out on a call that actually involved something interesting."

"Man, do me a favor," the EMT complained. "Don't tempt fate."

"Oh yeah, I forgot," said the driver. "Tell us, O Sanchez, of the wild and crazy shit that happened in The Big City, though assuredly our little country minds can't handle it."

"Don't kid, bro," the EMT said. "It gets fuckin' weird sometimes, I'll tell you that. Boring is awesome."

"Come on," said one of the other firefighters. "Let's get back. I'm starving."

The driver shrugged. "Yeah, whatever." He reached down to fire up the engine when he was interrupted by a scream. A maid came running out one of the rooms and threw up in the parking lot. She spotted the crew and said weakly, "They're dead." Then she threw up again.

This turn in events was taken into consideration. "Huh," said the driver. "Guess I better call it in."

"I blame you for this," the EMT said.

The driver shrugged. "Don't look at me. I don't think fate works that fast."

"You'd be surprised," the EMT responded glumly. He got back out of the truck. "Y'all owe me lunch."

* * *

Joan Peters hung up the phone and sighed. She'd had today all planned out. She'd _really _been looking to lunch, too. And then...this. Hopefully he'd understand.

She wasn't sure she did. She couldn't stop shaking her head, as if some part of her subconscious was rebelling. _No way, nuh-uh, no how. _

The last _actual _murder in Canaan had been- God, twenty years ago? Senior year of high school, at any rate. A love triangle gone bad, or something like that, anyway. Something for the gossips to titter about, but nothing that shocking, in the grand scheme of things.

An actual murder mystery? Damn. Never in a million years. She stood up, stretched, and started searching her desk drawers for her badge. The damn thing was in there somewhere.

She finally found it, shoved behind a box of staples, hidden under a notebook she'd thought she'd lost, and next to her gun. _Aha_. So that's where it'd gotten to. She grabbed everything but the staples, if only for the look of the thing, and groped around for her keys, at last finding them next to the little angel figurine on her desk. She'd inherited it from the last sheriff. She patted it for luck, then strode out of the office, shutting the door behind her. She squinted into the bright sunshine for a second as her eyes adjusted. The department's single and aging patrol car sat alone in the tiny, three-space parking lot. Some punk had scrawled "Wash Me" in the dust on the back window, and she made a mental note to finally get around to doing just that...tomorrow. Then she went around the front wrestled with the door until it finally gave up the ghost and she was able to wrench it open. She got in, slammed the door three or four times until it latched, and started the car up.

The engine coughed a few times, but turned over all the same. She patted the old cruiser on the dashboard and put it in reverse. As she pulled out on to the street, she threw on the lights for the hell of it.

A few minutes later, she pulled into the Sleep N' Go and came to a stop at an angle to the fire truck.

After a couple kicks, the door gave in and she was able to get out.

"Jesus Christ, girl. Time to retire that thing," said someone behind her.

"You offering to make a donation, Mr. Dylan?" she asked. She didn't turn around.

"I'll take up a collection."

Joan banged the door until it finally latched shut and looked back at the old man. "Generous of you, but I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to take it up elsewhere."

The old man grinned, creating creases in already wrinkled face. "I'm a gen-u-ine witness, missy," he said, patting his chest proudly. "You're gonna wanna talk to me."

"Later, Mr. Dylan," she said firmly. "Later."

The old man sucked on his teeth- a horrific sound- and acquiesced with a little shrug before shuffling off to gossip with the motel manager.

Someone came up behind her. "You got off easy," he said. "I thought for sure he was going to give you hell for that."

"Just lucky, I guess," Joan said. She turned to face Tom, the town's resident doctor...and the county's resident sucker. He was a man about her height but ten years older. With that salt-and-pepper hair and dignified wrinkles at the corner of his face, many would have called him 'distinguished'. But his casual slouch and permanent air of good humor lessened that, making him appear far younger. It wasn't remotely fair.

"So what've we got, Ducky?"

Tom gave her an exasperated look and started heading for the motel room. She matched his pace.

"Some day you're going to tell me what it is with you and those damn procedural shows," he said, taking off his hat and running a hand through his thinning hair.

"What?" She shrugged. "I like 'em."

He shook his head. "And that's the mystery."

"I'll tell you when you tell me how Springer conned you into agreeing to be M.E."

"Con? Hah. More like blackmail-"

She raised an eyebrow. "But you're just gonna have to keep guessing," he added.

"What, you don't want to file a report?" she asked innocently.

"Hell no," he scoffed. "So do you want to stand out here gossiping all day, or do you want to see some dead bodies?"

"I bet you say that to all the ladies."

"Just you," he said, and opened the door.

She followed him inside, then blinked and waited for her eyes to adjust.

The first thing she noticed was the smell. The copper tang of blood coated her tongue, followed by the bitter bite of gunpowder. "Tell me you're carrying those mints of yours," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "Suck it up, Joanie. Don't tell me the big bad sheriff's going soft."

"Smart ass." She blinked again, and the room slowly came into focus. She leaned over and poked at an empty beer can on the table with a pencil.

"Jesus. Were these two on a bender or what?" It seemed like every free space in the room was covered in empties.

Tom shrugged and held up his hands defensively. "Hey, don't ask me. I'm just here for the corpses."

Joan studied the room for a minute more, turning slowly around in a circle. She didn't miss the upturned duffel bags or the strewn clothing.

"Well, someone was looking for something," she said.

"Yup. Robbery, you think?" Tom asked.

"Could be, I guess. Too soon to tell for sure," she said absently, still glancing around. "How long've they been dead?"

"Not long," he said. "Bill McGregor- the manager- was in the middle of one of his panic attacks and called 911. While they were inside, a maid went into the room and came out screaming about dead men. The EMT went in, saw the dead guys, called you- and me."

"Yeah, but that doesn't rule them being there for a couple hours beforehand- does it?"

"Well, I could impress you with my comprehensive knowledge of the signs of death, or body temperatures, but-"

"Yeah?"

"Even without all that, it's pretty easy to pin down. Bill heard gunshots right before he called for help."

"And they didn't call me?" Joan asked, turning to face him. One hand ended up resting on her hip.

It was the hip upon which her gun holster rested- an accidental gesture, but an intimidating one...if he didn't know her.

He shook his head. "Nah. I don't think you've had to deal with him much, but the man's always calling about _something_ giving him a heart attack. Or hives." He shrugged. " Aliens. Gangsters. Wild animals. You know."

"Alright," she conceded. "So. We've got two dead guys- fully dressed, but the beds look slept in. Slept on, anyway. And a hell of a lot of drinking. Hungover, maybe? And someone comes in, and... bang. Searches the place, leaves."

"My guess is that they were sitting or standing originally. Probably sitting- look at how they fell back into the bed," Tom remarked. "Shotgun blast to the chest, both of 'em, by the looks of it. Think of the angles you'd have to get if you were standing over them."

Joan cocked her head to the side, looking at the bodies, then moved one arm, holding it stiff and bracing it with the other. Her fingers curled into the make-believe gun of children for a second. Her lips moved, and she then she relaxed. "Doable, but damn awkward," she said. "That's for sure... the recoil'd be a bitch, too."

"My thoughts exactly."

Joan frowned at the room again. "Well, let's get some pictures. Where's that deputy of mine?"

"Well- last I saw him, he was outside, flirting with the maid." Tom said mildly.

She sighed. "Alright. I'm going to pry him away and send him here. Keep him from doing anything too stupid, will you?"

"Sure thing. Why don't you send him with me? I could use the help. We're gonna have to take the bodies down to the city- they're gonna shit a brick. Bet they never thought we'd actually take advantage of the damn inter-county agreement."

"Alright. Do me a favor while you're down there- see if the department'd be willing to extend us the courtesy of running the prints for us? It'll be faster," Joan said, before he could segue into a diatribe about the dam project and the local inter-county rivalry.

"Can do," he said.

"Damn, this was not how I wanted to spend my afternoon."

Tom shrugged. "You and me both."

She pulled out her notebook and flipped it open. "Looks like I've got some witnesses to chase down."

"Have fun with that," he said, just a little too cheerfully. She glowered at him and walked back outside into the too-bright parking lot. Squinting against the sun, she glanced around before spotting a body of approximately the right shape and size. "Jeremy!" she called to her wayward deputy, "Get your ass in here."

The boy gave her a pained look, and turned back to the maid. The girl had apparently recovered enough from her trauma to giggle at some joke from Joan's baby-faced deputy. God, the girl was even twirling her hair. Joan shook her head inwardly and leveled a steady and unimpressed gaze at the boy.

"I was just getting her statement," he told Joan, straight-faced.

"Yeah, I just bet you were," she grumbled. "Just go get the camera. We need photos."

Joan rubbed a hand down her face and watched her wayward deputy drag his feet all the way to the crime scene. You'd expect a rookie- especially one out here in the sticks- to be raring at the bit in these circumstances, but not him. He seemed to view the job as a necessary evil, and crime...well. Crime was a nuisance, needlessly interfering with gossip, football, and flirtation. Sometimes it felt like the only reason worth keeping him around was his uncharacteristic thoroughness when it came to the paperwork.

She looked away and spotted a familiar old man, still loitering by the motel lobby. "Mr. Dylan," she called, and waited for him to look up. "How about you and me have that talk?"

The old man grinned.

Yeah, it was going to be a long afternoon.

* * *

By the time Joan made it back to her office, it was already growing dark. Interviewing the witnesses, such as they were, had been a long and mostly fruitless process. The girl hadn't seen anything – just the aftermath, same as everyone else. The manager was- and Tom hadn't really done him justice- a paranoid hypochondriac who was certain the whole thing was just a botched hit by the mob. And then there'd been the old man, who actually did witness something. For a given value of 'something'. Two (probably) white men, hightailing it out of there in a big black Chevy,_ like the Aldersens got that summer Johnny broke his leg._

There were limitations to how useful a witness could be, especially one whose vision was going and who remembered things via references that meant something only to him. The manager had also seen the big black car- though he was unable to give her a better description than that- but he swore the victims had arrived in it. Which meant there wouldn't be any easy clues to who those boys were or what the hell they'd been doing in Canaan. It was interesting, though, that the suspects had fled in their victims' car. Was that what they'd wanted all along? Joan had her doubts. Hopefully, something would turn up in the truck they'd found in the lot. No one seemed eager to claim it, so Joan intended to search it just as soon as the damn warrant came through... which would be as soon as someone could get the judge sober enough to see straight. And then there'd been those last few loose ends to tie up at the crime scene itself, and what a pain in the ass that had been.

She was beginning to resent the mystery dead men. Had they done her the courtesy of getting themselves shot just fifteen miles east, and they'd have been John Gibbons' problem. As it was, they were her headache and right now, she didn't think there was enough aspirin in the world.

The fax machine suddenly whirred to life and spit out several pieces of paper. She walked over and pulled them out of the tray and sorted through them.

It was a report from the Jainsville police station- guess they'd gotten a hit on her dead men's identities. She flipped through the pages. Sam Wesson and Dean Smith. No priors. But, huh- that was weird. Ohio...

The phone rang, interrupting her train of thought. She glared at it, then picked it up with serious trepidation.

"Joanie," said a voice that was unmistakably Tom's, even if he didn't bother to identify himself. "You better get down here."

"What? Why?"

"It's about the bodies."

"What about them?" She set the pages down and sat back down in her chair.

"Just... just get your lazy ass down here, okay?" he said, but the humor in his tone sounded forced. "It's important."

"Fine, but I don't see why-"

"Please." There was a tightness to his words that belied the pain-in-the-ass attitude.

"Alright. I'll be there." She hung up the phone and grabbed her thing as well as the keys to the cruiser. The old beast was getting quite the workout today.

She locked up and left, wondering if anything today could just manage to stay simple.

* * *

Tom's reception at Churchill County Hospital that afternoon was less than effusive. In fact, it was pretty much nothing but posturing and dick-measuring. And worst of all, after having worked there for twenty years before retirement, he damn well knew how much of the the paperwork and excuses they kept spewing at him were nothing but bureaucratic horse shit.

Eventually they relented and graciously allowed him access to the morgue- excuse him, forensic pathology. It was exactly the kind of thing he lacked patience for, anymore. The morgue fell under the hospital's administration- and while it did get more use as the part of the hospital dedicated to figuring out how various incompetents had managed to kill their patients, it was a separate entity, doing double duty as the tri-county morgue. As Garrett County's one, only, and official M.E., he should have had automatic access. He'd have liked to tell them off, but he had two bodies that weren't getting any fresher, and so he'd gritted his teeth and played the game. Once the obligatory posturing was over, he'd rounded up a couple of orderlies to help get the bodies set, and then he was alone in the lab with two dead men...and one very reluctant deputy.

"You ever see an autopsy, son?" he asked the stricken-looking deputy.

"Well, don't worry. You're not going to see one today, either." The boy let out a breath so suddenly Tom half expected to see him deflate, like a balloon. "But this isn't a vacation, understand?"

"Sir?" the deputy said, still sounding far too young to be carrying a weapon, let alone a badge.

Tom went to his bag and pulled out a print kit. "We'll get the prints first, and then you'll run them over to the local office and get them to fax the results to Jo- Sheriff Peters."

The kid nodded, still looking a little pale. Tom shook his head. "I don't get it, kid. You had no problem with bloody murder when we were at the motel, so why the timid maiden here?"

The young man colored at that, then gave one of those half-hearted shrugs far more familiar on teenagers. "I dunno. It's…creepy. They were part of the crime scene before, but now…" he gazed over at the bodies, prepped and ready on their slabs and trailed off. "It's- cold." He shook his head. He forced an awkward grin. "I keep expecting them to sit up, any moment now. Especially with the creepy-ass tattoos and that burn. "

"Don't worry, Deputy. That almost never happens," Tom said, matter-of-factly. He turned away and busied himself at the counter. He watched the boy's expression change in the steel reflection, and grinned to himself. That was an evil thing to do, but you've got to make your own pleasures in life.

The door swung open, and the deputy jumped, just a little, his hand going down and hovering over his gun.

"Oh!" said a pretty young woman dressed in scrubs. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

"I wasn't," Jeremy blurted. "We were just, uh-"

"Taking fingerprints," Tom finished, not cruel enough to leave the kid hanging.

"Really?" The young woman's dark eyes lit up. "I've never seen that done before."

"Can I help you?" Tom interjected.

"Oh! Yes. I'm Paula- the intern? Dr. Mills sent me down to assist."

"Good, Good," Tom said. He wasn't fond of interns, as a species, but it seemed unlikely even an intern could do anything to harm his current patients.

"Right," Jeremy said, speaking out of the blue. The intern looked at him oddly.

The urge to flee the morgue and the urge to stay and flirt waged a terrible war across his face. Tom casually strolled over to the counter and made a show of putting on his gloves and inspecting a bone saw. The urge to flee one out. The young man became a model of industriousness, taking the prints in record time. The intern watched him go with just a hint of disappointment. But it was gone after a moment, replaced by a certain eagerness he knew well.

"So, Dr. Paula, how shall we begin?"

"X-rays?" It came out as a question. She had that look in her face, the one that said, "did I get it right?" clear as day.

"Sounds like as good a place as any to me." Her face relaxed, and then he added, "Why?"

She went a bit wide-eyed, a look that certainly had fooled many into going easy on her. But Mills wouldn't have sent her down here if she wasn't a smart one. He'd have wanted to show off. "Well?"

"Uhm, well, if both suffered from gunshots to the chest, we'd want to confirm the placement of the bullets before proceeding?"

"Good." She preened. "Except not entirely correct. Come here." He walked over to one of the bodies and pulled the sheet down so that she could get a better view of the chest. "What do you see?"

She pursed her lips. "Well, it looks like someone shot him full of buckshot at close range."

He nodded. "That would be my interpretation too. Still want to do the x-ray?"

"Damn straight. Those buggers are going to be a nightmare if we don't have a clear idea where they are to start with."

He smiled. "Then hop to it, girl."

* * *

Joan pulled the cruiser into the hospital parking lot, fought her way out of the car, and headed for the bright lights of the ER. A gleam in her peripheral vision caught her eye and pinged some internal radar. She turned her head. Parked in a dark, shadowed corner of the parking lot was a monstrous beast of a car, barely visible in the gloom but for a sliver of light reflecting off its chrome.

Joe Dylan's insistence on the suspects leave in a big black Chevy, runs through her mind. He'd said it'd been like the one when Johnny broke his arm, and if she knew anything about that old coot, it was that he remembered forty years ago better than he did what he'd had for breakfast today.

She made her way slowly to the car, half sure she'd blink and it'd disappear. As she drew closer, she could see she'd been right. It was a Chevy.

Of course, practically every other car 'round here was. And black was a popular color, and the kind of references Joe made tended to fall anywhere between 1950 and 1980. It didn't mean much. But there was that tingling deep down in her spine- it felt significant. She peered in through the windows, but didn't see anything interesting. Nothing to give her cause to search the car. She made a mental note of the plates and headed back towards the hospital entrance. She'd better see what had Tom so uncharacteristically upset before she started on what was likely nothing more than a wild goose chase.

Inside, there was chaos.

The emergency room was a squawking, squalling throng of people, some huddled in chairs with screaming babies and morose, fevered-looking children, others milling around holding towels to bloody arms or coughing their lungs out. She pushed her way to the front, idly noting two good ol' boys, neither visibly injured who were in the midst of a heated argument.

She just hoped they didn't start adding to the casualties already present in the room- they looked close enough to it.

"Goddamn it, Roy, we can't just-" she heard, before that too was lost in the general hubbub. At the desk, she flashed her badge to a beleaguered-looking nurse.

"How can I help you, Sheriff?" the woman asked, sounding more impatient than actually helpful.

"I'm looking for Dr. Clemens. Tom Clemens?"

"He's in the morgue." The nurse scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed her a visitor's pass. "One floor down, go down the hall, third door on the right."

"I know," Joan said simply. "Thanks." She grabbed the pass and turned away.

"Elevator's the other way," the nurse remarked.

Joan glanced back. "I know," she said, with a significant look at the crowd. The nurse shrugged.

"Suit yourself," she said, and went back to sorting out some of the masses of paperwork in front of her. "Lisa Kim?" she called. Joan watched a young woman with a toddler get up from one of the benches and start making her way forward as she walked away. Then she turned a corner and headed down a hall towards the stairs. The noises from the ER eventually faded away.

She opened the door and understood why the nurse had warned against taking the stairs. There was a smell- not exactly unpleasant, but not something you'd willingly want to breath in either, like gasoline or chlorine. She took the stairs two a time, finally reaching the door at the bottom. She opened it quickly and stepped out into the hall, breathing in the scent of hospital disinfectant almost gratefully.

A young woman hurried out of a room down the hall and brushed past her, apparently deeply upset.

Joan turned to watch her go, then turned back in time to see Tom come out of the same room looking equally grim. The door to the stairs slammed behind her, and she glanced back at it, then back at Tom.

"Joanie." He looked almost relieved to see her.

"Tom, what the hell is going on?"

"I need some coffee. You?," he said, seemingly out of the blue.

"What? No. Why?" It was apparently non-sequitur day, and no one had told her.

He pulled a small glass bottle out of his pocket and shook it. It sloshed.

"Because I've just stolen Mills' 'medicinal' whiskey, and it's a bad thing to drink on an empty stomach. Come on." He slipped the bottle back into his pocket and looked down the hall.

Joan paced in front of him so she could see his face. "Seriously, Tom, what the hell is going on?"

He pursed his lips and shook his head, then headed down the hall, forcing her to follow. After a few turns, he opened the door to a small staff room and appropriated a coffee mug from a cabinet. It was pink and emblazened with the word 'Shoppaholic!' but he didn't seem to notice.

He poured a generous measure of whiskey into the cup, then followed it with an equally generous measure of coffee. He took a sip and made a face.

"God, this stuff gets worse every time I try it." But he took another sip.

Joan made a face. "Don't tell me you made me drive all this way over here just to keep you company on a coffee break, for Christ sake."

Instead of replying, he proffered the bottle. She turned it away with a flip of her hand. "You sure? You're gonna want it," he said, still being damnably vague.

She was going to throttle him. "Goddamn it, Tom. If you don't-"

The door slammed open before she could finish the threat, and a pissed-off and overweight man in his late 40s marched in. The florescent lighting reflected off his bald head, which she could see because she had at least five inches on him. It didn't seem to phase him.

Tom surreptitiously slipped the bottle back into his pocket. "Dr. Mills," he said casually.

The doctor ignored him. "Goddamn it, Clemens. What the HELL did you do to my intern?"

Tom shrugged, feigning innocence, and said nothing.

"She's transferring to ONOCOLOGY, god-_fucking_-damn it! I know you had a hand in this, you bastard."

Tom pursed his lips and shook his head. "Maybe it's just her calling," he said, still way too casually to be taken as anything but a lie.

The doctor fixed him with a glare, then transferred it to Joan. Joan backed up, hands out. "Don't look at me."

"I'm going to get to the bottom of this," he said, looking at both of them. "This isn't over." And he stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Joan glanced back at Tom, who had collapsed into the old couch in the corner as soon as the other man had gone.

"How can anything go so horribly wrong?" he asked. His face was haggard, his expression drawing out the lines in his face and making him look too old.

"What? The autopsy?" Instead of answering right away, he tossed her a file. " Take a look for yourself. Hell, I thought the handprint burn was weird, but-"

"Tom," Joan said very calmly, "If you don't start from the beginning, I swear I'm going to shoot you myself."

He rubbed a hand over his face. "Fine. One of the bodies- the shorter guy, though I don't know if it's right to call him that, have you seen them? They'd both tower over me, it just seems-"

"Tom!"

"Right, right. Anyway, he has a burn over the left deltoid that looks exactly like a handprint." He went on before she could object, clearly seeing the protest before she could voice it. "I don't mean like a handprint in a "doesn't that cloud look like a lion?" sort of way. I mean, like it was made by a hand. But it's too perfect, you see. A real burn- well, one that nasty would scar far worse. It was weird. Might figure it out eventually, but I've got no real ideas right now." He rubbed his temples.

Joan huffed in exhasperation. "Okay, so that's weird. But why in God's name call me down here for that?"

"It's not just that, Joanie. That was obvious from the start, but you know, not that big of a deal."

She nodded and spun a hand, trying to get him to get on with it.

"Anyway, it all started going down hill when we- that's me and the intern- took the x-rays. At first, you know, it was just a curiosity. Maybe an error. We did the x-ray on the first one three times, then tried it on one of the other bodies they had in stock just to make sure it wasn't something wrong with the machine or the film. And it was fine. But the thing is, both of them had it. You know, your dead guys. And that was just weird too. Could have been a prank, you know."

"So? What was it?"

He gestured at the file, and she obligingly opened it. Inside were some notes...and a couple of x-rays. She grabbed one and held it up to the light, wondering if she'd see anything that meant anything to her.

She sucked in a breath.

Every rib was covered in strange symbols, occasionally punctuated by groupings of what she assumed were buckshot.

"Holy shit," she breathed.

"Yeah," Tom said, nodding glumly. "That's about right."

"The suspects- maybe they did this, before I mean. Covered it up with the gunshot wounds."

Tom shook his head sadly. "Nope. It's in there," he said, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. "Cause of death: Gunshot to the chest. I made sure."

Joan started to speak, then stopped. After a second she said, "Still- that's the only thing that makes sense, right? That or the prank?"

"You'd think so," he said, still leaning his head against the wall. "Toxicology came back. No drugs in their system- though there was a hell of a lot of booze. And I cracked 'em open myself. They're there, Joanie. I can't explain it, but they are."

"Surgery. Or...mutilation after death."

He sat up, then shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Nope. That would have left a mark. One way or another. I don't know how the hell they did it, but it means we've got a problem."

Joan grabbed a chair from the table, spun it around, and sat on it backwards, leaning her arms on the backrest. " We've got two men murdered, just this afternoon, Tom. That's a problem. We need the evidence." she said.

"Joanie," he said, "I can't testify to that. I'd get laughed out of court. You'd get laughed out of court. They'll see it as evidence of...evidence tampering, and then we'd both get dragged off to the looney bin!"

"So what do we do?" she said, giving him a hard look. "Sweep it under the rug? Even if that were ethical, it's too late for that. Half the town knows about the murders already, and the other half will know by tomorrow. And hell, we had them run the prints here, remember?"

He slumped a little in his chair, and sighed. "Fine. Did you get anything back from that?"

Joan shifted uncomfortable. "Well...yes."

He lifted an eyebrow. "And?"

She dropped her shoulders and exhaled. "And it was weird too."

"Fantastic. Well, come on and tell ol' uncle Tom how much more fucked up this thing gets."

"So we got a positive ID for both of 'em."

"And?"

"Well... the thing is, they don't actually have any priors. Sam Wesson and Dean Smith."

"Smith & Wesson? You've got to be kidding me," he groaned.

"I'm not," she said flatly. "But I've seen weirder. No law against changing your name to something damn stupid. No, it's just that..." she shook her head, pursed her lips, and frowned. "Despite no priors, no actual record, they popped up in our state system."

"Missing persons report?" he guessed.

"Something like that. But not. Everything in it says Ohio. It's not formatted right. And it's not exactly a missing persons report. It just says to contact a... Zachariah Adler, something like that. Just that and a phone number. It doesn't make any sense. It shouldn't have been there."

"You know, usually I'd agree with you, but I've got a couple of guys with rib tattoos. I think I win," he said, kicking back some more of the 'medicinal' coffee. "So, did you call it?"

She shook her head. "Didn't get a chance. You called, remember."

He finished the coffee. "So I did."

"Yeah." She drummed her fingers on the top of the chair back. "Tom, why don't you show me the bodies? Maybe I'll see something you missed."

"I doubt it."

"Humor me."

He shrugged and heaved himself off the sofa. "If you insist."

He followed her back down the hall towards the morgue, but as they rounded the last corner, she held out a hand and waved him back. Peering around the corner, she noticed the two rednecks from earlier in front of the door. One was huddled over the door as the other kept a look out. They were whispering furiously to one another.

Freeing the strap over her holster, she edged around the corner, keeping one hand hovering over her weapon.

"Stop!" she said. "Back away from the door."

The two men looked up at her, and for a second, they froze like deer in the headlights. But that second passed and with a synchronicity that dancers would envy, they bolted down the hall.

"Shit!" She took off after them. The door to the stairway slammed in her face, but she banged it back open and ran up the stairs with a speed she hadn't thought possible for fifteen years. She burst out on the first floor and looked around wildly, until a startled-looking grandmother pointed down the hall, back out towards the ER. She nodded in thanks at the woman, too breathless to speak, and took off again. She spotted them pushing their way through the throng of people still milling around the admittance area and bolted after them, dodging sick children and injured mechanics all the way.

The automatic doors slid open right before she reached them. She leaped to the side to avoid knocking over an old woman in crutches and then vaulted over a low wooden planter, landing in the soft lawn before taking off again.

The two figures were headed right for the big black car she'd seen earlier. Ha! She sprinted full out now, aware that her body'd be soon presenting a high bill, but deciding not to worry about it. Somewhere, she managed to find the energy for one more burst of speed, finally catching up with the two before they could get into the car.

Her gun appeared in her hand as if by magic.

"Hold it right there!" she said. "Hold it! And hands up, while you're at it. I will shoot you, so help me God."

They looked at each other across the roof of the car and raised their hands slowly.

"You're under arrest," she said, not moving her eyes from them.

"For what?" one tried. Flippant bastard.

"I'm sure I'll think of something. Let's start with resisting arrest, and move up from there. How does murder sound to you boys?"

They glanced at each other again. "I don't know what you're talking about, Sheriff," one said.

"Yeah? We'll see. 'Cuz to me? That looks an awful lot like blood on your shirt sleeve there, bucko."

They said nothing, but the one with the stain on his sleeve tried to turn his arm enough to see it, then thought better of it and tried to disguise them movement as a stretch.

Gotcha, she thought.

She heard footsteps behind her, and risked one cautious glance backward. It was hospital security. She reached down with her free hand and grabbed her handcuffs. She passed them blindly to the security guard to her right.

"Cuff these two gentlemen for me, will you, fellas?"

A minute later, as she finished reading them their rights, Tom came puffing up behind her.

"Nice of you to join us," she wheezed, reholstering her gun.

He came up and stood beside her. "Some of us try to actively avoid a coronary," he said pointedly.

She waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

He frowned at her, then said, "What now?"

Joan coughed and beat a fist against her chest, then sucked in a hoarse breath. "Damn, I'm not in the shape I used to be." She shook herself and said, "Well, that'll depend on Jainsville's finest." She nodded in the direction of the patrol car that was just then pulling into the lot.

Tom looked at her askance. "You're turning them over?"

She shrugged, then grimaced. "They've got better facilities. And it'll keep them happy while we sort out the jurisdictional issues."

He considered this as he watched the car pull up. "Expecting problems?"

She made a dismissive gesture with her head. "Nah. Sole advantage to being Sheriff- the authority to act pretty much anywhere in state lines…with due cause, of course."

He nodded sagely. "Of course," he said. "I still don't get it, though." He shrugged a shoulder towards the patrol car. "Why not exercise your authority?"

"Oh, that's an easy one." She gave him a slow, satisfied grin. "If Jainsville wants to pay to keep those two in custody for a few nights, who am I to complain?" She opened her arms in a generous movement.

"Besides," she added, "It certainly won't hurt my budget."

"Devious woman." He shook his head in admiration. "Do me a favor and don't ever run for elected office."

"Too late," she said.

"Further elected office," he amended.

The officers from the JPD wandered over. Joan walked over and spoke to them briefly. They nodded and took over from the security guards. They handcuffed the two men separately, then hauled them off into the back of their cruiser. One returned Joan's cuffs to her, and she nodded politely at him and slowly made her way back to Tom. Together, they watched the car pull away.

"C'mon," Joan said. "I need to sit down."

"You are out of shape," Tom teased. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

"Shut up." But she didn't argue with him, just started walking towards the planter she'd so athletically vaulted earlier. She collapsed on it gracelessly, her knees sticking out at odd angles, and rested her elbows on her thighs.

Tom joined her in companionable silence.

A cool evening breeze wafted past, temporarily carrying away the smell of exhaust and disinfectant. Goosebumps broke out across Joan's arms as she relaxed, and she rubbed at them until they went away.

The hospital doors behind them slid open. Joan paid them no mind until a querulous voice demanded ,"What are you going to do about this?"

Joan debated ignoring it, as Tom was so intently doing, until the voice added, "Well?"

She turned reluctantly and saw an old man standing in the entry way. He watched her from his beady little eyes with the intensity of a hawk. He was dressed in a suit that must have fit him once at a haler age. It hung loose from his bones, but he didn't seem to care. A very grandfatherly-looking hat was perched on his head.

She sighed, and stood. "And what can I do for you, sir?"

"It's these damn doctors," he told her, "It's outrageous! There are women and children in there."

She glanced through the doors. There was nothing she could see that could have riled the man up. "What's the problem?"

"Some of those doctors," the man confided in a urgent whisper, "well, they flashed my wife. Not wearing anything but what god gave 'em under those white coats! My wife- she still hasn't recovered. It's indecent!"

She turned back around and traded a glance with Tom. The look said, "Nope, I've had enough weirdness for one evening," more eloquently than words could ever hope to. She turned back around, a big helpful smile plastered on her face.

"Well sir, you're in luck. That's not really my department, but I know just who can help you. See those two men over there?" She pointed at the two security guards, still loitering around the black car, trying their damndest to look official. "They're in charge here. They'd be happy to help you, I'm sure."

The old man nodded curtly and hobbled determinedly towards the guards.

"Now what do you think that was all about?" Tom asked once the man was out of earshot. It wasn't very far.

"At this point, Clemens, I don't even want to know."

He conceded the point. "So what's next?"

She sighed, taking her seat again. "Well, they're supposed to be sending someone to tow the car down to the impound, but I'm not going to wait around for it. I was thinking about heading back, grabbing a shower, and then get a start on the paperwork. You?"

He pulled the little glass bottle out of his pocket and waved it around. "Well, first, I'm going to finish Mill's terrible whiskey. Then…" he shook his head. "I guess I'll see about writing up a report on the bodies that sounds less than insane."

"Maybe they'll confess and it won't even come up, what do you think?"

He looked at her sideways. "When has anything actually made our lives easier?"

"Good point." She got up, wincing at the sound her knees made. Tom did the same.

"Alright. I'm off. Call me if anything else comes up."

He gave a faux salute. "Yes, Ma'am," and slouched back into the hospital.

She watched him go. "We're so screwed," she remarked to the empty parking lot.

* * *

After a bite to eat and a very hot shower, Joan was left feeling slightly more human. The prospect of returning to her office no longer seemed so daunting.

She pulled the cruiser into the small parking area on auto-pilot, but when she got out, she noticed a familiar black car parked along the side of the road. She frowned at it, noting something white in the backseat. She headed back towards her office, wondering if the JPD could have had it sent to her instead of to the impound lot… but why would they? And why leave it in the street?

She slowed, then game to a stop. The front door was ajar. Gears began to turn in her head. She undid the clasp over her holster with one hand while slowly pushing the door open with the other.

Seeing nothing, she crept in, then froze when the beam of a flashlight briefly cut across the open doorway of the evidence/file room.

There was the sound of something clattering to the floor, followed by muffled cursing. "Shit, Sam, watch what you're doing."

She crept forward and listened to the footsteps inside. In one sudden movement, she leaped forward through the open door and pulling her gun.

"Hold it!" she shouted, training her gun on the two men –god, they were huge – in the back of the room. She couldn't see their faces, just their outlines, and she fumbled with one hand for the light switch.

The room flooded with light. All three of them winced, but then Joan got a glimpse of their faces and her eyes widened of their own accord.

The two dead men looked back at her, frustration in their eyes.

Her heart stuttered before kicking into over drive, but her aim never waivered.

"Please-" said one- the taller one- in a hurry, "Uh. We can explain."

She shifted her weight, keeping her gun trained on them. "And I would love to hear it."

And it was true. Because while part of her brain was screaming about twins, another part, a deeper part, was tallying up all the weird shit of the past day and wasn't buying it.

"You," she said suddenly, indicating the other one- Dean Smith?- with her gun. She swallowed. "Take off your shirt."

"Lady," he said, and his voice was all gravel and broken glass, "This isn't Chippendales."

"Do it!" she barked, shifting her aim towards him, then swinging the gun back again when the taller shifted his weight.

The other gave her a hard stare. "Fine," he said, and stripped off his shirt in one leonine movement.

And there it was. On his left arm, a burn so raised and red it seemed to glow…and in the shape of a handprint.

"What the hell," she breathed. She couldn't take her eyes off it. And in that moment of inattention, the taller one surged forward, catching her by surprise and wresting the gun out of her hand, then spinning away.

She looked up to see the barrel of her own gun pointed at her.

"Dean- get her cuffs."

The other- Dean- gingerly stepped forward and lifted the cuffs off her belt. He retreated, retrieved his shirt, and demurely put it back on.

The taller one- Sam?- nodded his head back at her office. "Back up," he said. "Slowly."

She did so, raising her hands and easing her way backwards. When she was out of the evidence room, Dean darted forward and dragged her to her desk, where he cuffed her hands around the desk leg with damnable efficiency.

"Will it hold?" Sam asked.

"Long enough. I'll watch her."

Sam headed back into the evidence room, and she heard the sounds of rummaging- louder now, less careful.

"What in god's name is going on here?" she asked, not really expecting an answer, but still not sure how the day could have gone so wrong on her.

The man laughed, but there was something hard and wrong about it. "Sweetheart, God's got nothing to do with it."

She glared at him, suddenly pissed beyond belief not only over this latest humiliation but the whole damn day. "Oh, fuck you. Call me sweetheart again and I'll find someway to shoot you."

He shrugged, taking no offense. "Suit yourself."

The other man came back into the room, carrying duffel bags full of what she was sure was the evidence from the motel room…and a couple of file folders under one arm. Three guesses what they contain, and the first two don't count, she thought.

"Let's go."

Dean nodded and moved to leave.

"Wait!" she blurted, desperate to salvage at least one thing from the day.

He hesitated. "What?"

"What the hell happened to you arm?"

He smiled. It was completely without humor. "My guardian angel."

"Your guardian angel sucks," she said, thinking back to the motel room.

His jaw worked for a moment and he said, "Guess he does." Then he followed his brother out of the room and shut the door.

Joan beat her head against the desk leg for a minute and wondered if she was going to be stuck there until her deputy came in the next morning. She'd told Gordon not to wait up.

Being cuffed to her own damn desk gave her ample time to think the day over. They obviously weren't the dead men. Couldn't be. Tom had sliced those guys up, and she'd gotten a good look at the one's chest.

Twins, or something. And the IDs were…a mix up. Which meant she still didn't know who the dead guys were.

Maybe their brothers killed them, and the other two clowns were just…accomplices. Or took the chance to steal the car.

Give it until morning, and she might have the entire thing solved. She sighed and leaned her head against the desk leg.

After about an hour, her phone rang.

That itself was something of a miracle. It had to be pushing ten.

She managed to stand enough to bring her shoulder just below the desk. She couldn't lift the desk enough to escape, but she managed to pick it up enough to knock the phone off its cradle. She squeezed out from under the desk and laid her head on the top, right next to the receiver. It was awkward as hell, hurt like a bitch but she wasn't going to complain.

"Joanie- you there?" It was Tom. God, she loved the old bastard sometimes. Impeccable timing.

"Tom! Oh thank God."

"Look, I've got to talk to you- Wait, what?" She could practically see his train of thought come to a screeching halt.

"Look, I need you to call Jeremy and tell him to get over here. There's a...situation."

"What the hell happened?"

"Um." Joan considered her position, one cheek pressed up against a stapler, her body contorted in ways she was going to pay for tomorrow. But she swallowed her pride and forced herself to speak. "Some men broke in to the office. Ah, hell, Tom. They got me when my guard was down and chained me to my own damn desk with my own damn handcuffs."

"Joan- you're okay, right?"

"Hell no. My pride's gone terminal. But I'm fine."

"Did you ID them? Who was it? What did they want?"

"I'm still working on that one. Twin brothers to our dead men, I suppose." Tom inhaled suddenly at that. Joan continued, "They cleared out the evidence. Wait- why are you still talking to me? Call my damn deputy already."

"Joan..." Tom says. "The reason I was calling- uh."

"Can't it wait?"

He ignores her. "The uh. The bodies are gone."

If she could have, she'd have slammed a hand into her face. "Fantastic."

"Look. They're working on pulling the security footage. I'll call Jeremy. Then you better get down here."

"Fine."

He hung up. Joan eased herself away from the desk and sat down on the floor again.

Eventually the phone started beeping its 'off the hook' beep, and she was forced to listen to that until her wayward deputy finally deigned to make an appearance.

He only just barely managed to keep from sniggering. Freed from the cuffs, stood up and stretched, wincing at all the cracking noises.

"Hey, so. I'll see you tomorrow morning," Jeremy said, sidling to the door. "Or not. Big date tonight."

Over my dead body, Joan thought.

"Sorry kid," she said. "I need you to stay here and secure the scene."

The look on his face was worth every moment of being stuck under her desk, and kept her grinning all the way back to the hospital.

She called Tom on her phone. "Where am I meeting you?"

"So Deputy Jeremy came to the rescue?"

Joan sighed. "Tom. I'm tired. I'm sore. My ego's feeling bruised, and I'm packing. This is a bad combination. Seriously, just tell me where I'm going, here."  
She could hear him grumble under his breath before he spoke. "Second floor, go down the hall, take the first left, it's the door at the end. But hurry up, we've just about found it."

"I'll be there in ten." She hung up and put the pedal to the metal. The old car lurched along as fast as it could, all the way back to the hospital parking lot.

If she never saw it again, it'd be to soon.

She headed inside and ducked around the crowd, deciding to avoid the hassle this time around. With any luck, she'd be in and out in ten minutes and no one would be the wiser.

She took the elevator this time around, too. If only for the benefit of her knees.

Finding the room wasn't hard. Tom had given good directions for once. She knocked, and she was let in by a grim-faced security guard.

Tom was hunched over a monitor, poring over grainy black-and-white footage of a hallway.

"Hey. You gonna tell me what's going on?"

"Hey! Good timing. We've just about narrowed it down. You just missed seeing us walk down the hall to the lounge."

Joan pulled up a chair next to him, and watched the screen. "So you said the bodies were missing."

"Yeah. Completely. No one saw anything, either- and the door had been locked."

"Body snatchers, this day and age?' Neither of them took their eyes off the screen.

"Stranger things have happened."

"I suppose."

About thirty seconds latter, Dr. Mills stomped down the hall. This view was even more unflattering of him, but she didn't have to see it for long. The screen suddenly whited out in a burst of static. Tom hit a button and the playback paused.

"What the hell is that?" Joan said, turning back to face the security guard who'd been watching the tape over her shoulder.

He shrugged. "Bad tape, I guess."

Tom hit play. The static lasted for half a second, maybe less, before clearing back into the now-familiar view of the hall.

After about five minutes, the door opened.

"Wait-" Joan said, shaking her head. Tom obligingly hit stop. "Did we see anyone go in?"

Tom shook his head, as did the security guard.

"Maybe earlier?"

"There's nowhere to hide. Not without being noticed. God, we even were looking in the other drawers for a body we could test the x-ray machine on."

"You sure?"

"Well, I was."

Joan tapped her fingers against the desk. "Well, let's see who it is." Tom hit play. The video continued, and out of the room stepped two very large men, dressed in too-small lab coats.

"Hey, the flashers," the security guard said, sounding happy. "Couldn't figure out what the hell that old man was going on about," he said, catching Joan's expression and shrugging apologetically.

She turned back to the screen, just in time to catch a glimpse of the taller of the two's face as he looked back down the hall.

Her heart stopped.

"Holy SHIT," said the security. "That's the dead guy, right?"

"Twin." Joan added quickly. "Gotta be."

"Right, right." The guard said hurriedly. He coughed.

They watched as the two red necks she'd arrested tried to break into the lab. They'd barely missed seeing the two men, who'd apparently taken the elevator.

Past-Joan and Past-Tom returned, and Joan watched herself take after the two men. Not too shabby, she thought. Not as bad as I imagined.

Past-Tom quickly followed.

But after that... not a soul disturbed the morgue. An intern walked passed, and nothing more, right up until an hour later when Tom returned and went in.

Tom stopped the tape. "And then I spent an hour trying to figure out where the hell bodies had been moved to. You know, with your jurisdiction thing-" he waved a vague hand at Joan, "Or just a good ol' hospital fuck-up. But there was nothing."

"Bodies don't just disappear."

"They do when they walk off by themselves," the guard said, sounding spooked.

"Don't be ridiculous," Tom snapped. "Those men- I'd cracked them open, you understand? It's not like I could have been mistaken about them being dead! I'd been poking around in their innards for an hour!"  
"Sorry, man," the guard said. His radio beeped. "Gotta take this," and he excused himself from the room.

"Maybe someone did find a way to hide in there," Joan remarked after a minute.

"No. Impossible. If you'd seen the room-"

"Maybe I should," she said reasonably.

"It won't change anything." Tom pressed his knuckles into his forehead. "This day... shitty doesn't even begin to describe it."

"Tell me about it," Joan agreed glumly. Her phone rang. Both of them jumped, then sheepishly pretended they hadn't. She reached down and grabbed it, squinting at the display screen.

"It's Jeremy," she said. "Wonder what he wants." She flipped it open. "Hey kid, why are you- Wait, what? No- goddamn it. No. Thanks for calling me. Alright. Bye."

She snapped the phone closed and stared at it.

"What was that about?" Tom asked.

"He got a call from the JPD. They uh." She shook her head. "The two men we caught earlier, they escaped custody some time ago."

"Just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?"

"What the hell are we supposed to do now?" She asked, mostly rhetorically.

"Go home," Tom answered fervently. He caught her expression. "No, I'm serious. Look at the facts, Joanie. No bodies. No evidence. No suspects. No files, even, except the ones I showed you earlier and I told you, I'm not standing next to those in court. We can't even prove there was a crime at this point."

She remained silent for a minute.

"And what will we tell everyone? Word has definitely gotten around."

"We'll call it a hoax. Say that we fell for it hook line and sinker. Try to charge all four of those guys with...making fraudulent reports."

She pursed her lips. "And the tape?"

"We'll tell the guards the same. We don't even have to explain it. We'll blame it on students."

"This sounds an awful lot like conspiracy, Tom."

"Maybe. But think about it, Joan, what's the alternative?"

She frowned. "Keep looking- and admit to looking- for two men who apparently made two dead bodies that looked exactly like them disappear...and who left a room without entering it."

"...and who had some damn impossible body art." He added, giving her a significant look.

Joan sighed again. She was practically making a habit of it, today. "Well, fuck. When you put it that way..."

"Yeah."

"Yeah." Joan thought for a moment. "Well, I'll tell you what. I'm not dealing with it any more tonight. We can figure out what to do tomorrow." She stood up, then walked to the door.

"I'm going home, and I'm going to bed."

"Hey, but-" Tom started. She held up a hand. "Do me a favor, Tom. If something comes up...don't call me. Call... the JPD. Yes. I am delegating to them. They lost the suspects, they can have the case."

Tom started to object, but she shushed him with a wave of her hand, and in one grand gesture, she went through the door and shut it behind her. She had a bottle of wine back at her house calling her name.

And tomorrow, maybe all of this would just be a bad dream.

* * *

Three hundred miles from the sheriff and her problems, Walt and Roy were settling into a motel room for the night.

"I told you it was a bad idea," Roy said.

"Look, it wasn't perfect, but we did the job and got out, didn't we?"

"Yeah, and we left everything else behind. Fuck, Walt."

There was a knock at the door. "Hey, don't forget who it was that got us out of that goddamn county lock up," Walt said, walking over to the door and opening it.

No one was there. He frowned, and shut it again, turning back to face Roy, who was sprawled out on the bed. "It could have been worse," he said pointedly.

There was a soft click.

"You're right," someone said, and it wasn't Roy. "You could have fucked up the car."

Walt spun around, reaching for his knife.

Too late. Too slow.

If it wasn't for bad luck, we'd have no luck at all, he thought. And then everything went dark, and he thought nothing at all.

**The End.**


End file.
